


under the water

by Kalgalen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Digital Art, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: There is a statue on the beach.It's made of stone, old and beaten by the elements; it is shaped like a person, but if it ever had a face, it's long since been eroded by the rain and the sand. At the end of its extended arm, a lantern hangs, swinging softly in the wind - black, wrought iron, durable. No one remembers who erected it or what for, but it is said that anyone who lights a candle in the lantern when the sun disappears under the horizon will see a wish granted.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68





	1. under the water (we are alone)

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello this is my fic for the tma fantasy week! it's by no mean groundbreaking but i had fun writing it and i hope you'll have fun reading it c: also i made a playlist for it, each song goes with a chapter so let's see if you can see where this goes: [[link]](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6K1MGLPjlcR866FtvIkEky?si=v3O1-GBBRBK7ITdBh4fW6A)

There is a statue on the beach.

It's made of stone, old and beaten by the elements; it is shaped like a person, but if it ever had a face, it's long since been eroded by the rain and the sand. At the end of its extended arm, a lantern hangs, swinging softly in the wind - black, wrought iron, durable. No one remembers who erected it or what for, but it is said that anyone who lights a candle in the lantern when the sun disappears under the horizon will see a wish granted.

Jon doesn't think that's true; he prides himself on having left behind credulity and childish beliefs long ago. His grandmother, who raised him, never tried hard to entertain his belief that Santa Claus was real, and he's never been drawn to legends and prophecies. Jon needs concrete proof to believe in anything, and old wives' tales are only just that: tales, pretty lies without foundation. 

(And if there's a part of him that still enjoys reading children's books and fantastic stories at the ripe age of sixteen because the magic in them contributes to making his daily life a bit more bearable - well, that's his own business.)

Long story short: there's a statue on the beach, and it might simply be an old chunk of rock, but damn him if Jon isn't tempted to go light that lantern to see what happens sometimes.

And then one day, after a particularly hellish school day that had resulted in one of his books being ripped from his hands and torn apart at recess - _"What's that? A story for kids? You're so weird"_ \- he takes his decision: in the evening, he will walk to the statue on the beach and blow the lantern out. It most likely won't work, but he's miserable, tired and lonely, and he just wants a friend. Just one, someone who will understand him and appreciate him instead of mocking his books and his clothes, and making him feel as if he's unworthy of being loved.

He just wants a friend.

It starts raining just after dinner, and Jon almost decides to reschedule his attempt - but as he sits alone in his bedroom, the silence becomes so heavy it physically weighs on his heart, and he springs up from his bed, unable to stand the crushing feeling any longer. He goes down the stairs, quiet as a cat, then slinks by the open door of the living room where his grandmother is watching the telly, and wraps himself up in his most waterproof coat. He makes sure his keys are in his pocket, as well as a box of matches and a tea light, and then he's off.

The bad weather keeps people inside their homes, and Jon doesn’t come across anyone as he makes his way down the streets and toward the shore. The sculpture is situated in a rocky area of the beach, and Jon struggles to keep his balance when his shoes fail to grip the wet stone. Water is running down his neck and he can barely see in front of him due to both the droplets on his glasses and the diminishing daylight. Not for the first time, he thinks about giving up; but he’s so close, turning back now is out of the question.

Eventually, after many curses and much flailing, he reaches the monument. The sun is barely visible behind the rolling clouds, and he wonders if this whole undertaking is doomed to fail because of the elements. Gritting his teeth and feeling like an utter fool, he slips the candle in the lantern and fumbles with the box of matches. It's a fight to get it to stay lit long enough for him to blow it out himself, but when he finally succeeds he takes the time to close his eyes and think, as forcefully as he can:

_I don't want to be alone anymore._

The flame is flickering weakly when he opens his eyes again. Then he blows on it softly, and it dies out.

He stands expectantly for a bit, shivering in the storm. Nothing happens - of course. Jon refrains from giving the statue a resentful kick, and decides to go home.

Then - despite the rain beating against his hood and the waves breaking around him - he hears a cry. A sob, really; he looks around for the source of the noise… But there's no one out there. Thinking he must have imagined it, he starts to leave. 

He only has a second to realise what's happening. Time slows down as his foot lands on a particularly smooth stretch of stone, and he slips. The waves crashing against the rocks on his right seem to rise up to meet him -

And then he's under water, and everything is dark.


	2. caught in a web/you’re so easily led to the deep

Surrounded by cold and quiet, he floats, weightless. Did he drown? Is this death? Behind his eyelids, he only sees black. He breathes in, and the cold enters his lungs, pushing him to wrap his hands around himself in a shiver. He almost wants to go to sleep, wrapped in this peaceful, frosty embrace. 

But then, as his consciousness starts to drift away, the sound he's heard before reaches his ears again: a cry, muffled as if the source of it is trying to hide it - heartbreaking. Jon opens his eyes, and startles when he sees his surroundings. 

It's a forest. But not a forest made of trees; rather, it is kelp that grows from the sandy ground to reach up toward the soft glow of the twilight - toward the surface. Jon realises he's under water, and it takes all of his will not to panic on the spot. Instead he takes a deep breath - and the cold that fills his lungs is salt water, but it feels like the chilly air of a night of November.

What is happening? As far as he can tell, he did fall in the water, and got dragged away from the shore by the ebb and flow of the waves. He doesn't feel dead, and yet he breathes water; which surely means something supernatural is going on.

His heart beating hard in his chest and his thoughts in disarray, Jon lets his feet touch the bottom of the ocean. He doesn't wonder where the certitude he can just walk comes from; another sob can be heard, and he starts moving toward it. If anything, he might get an explanation as to what is happening.

The fading daylight disappears quickly around him, replaced by the blue hues of the moonlight. It is still raining up there; he can tell from the way the surface breaks like shattered glass under the combined efforts of the wind and rain. Whatever is happening to him now, he's glad not to be out in that weather anymore.

A sniffle, a sigh; the origin of the distress isn't far anymore. Jon hesitates. He wouldn't want to be bothered if he were in that situation. Perhaps it is the same for that person.

But before he can retreat, the crying stops. 

"Who's there?"

The voice comes clear through the water, if a bit wobbly. It sounds - young. Unsure. Jon swallows, then steps forward.

A man - boy? He doesn't look much older than Jon - watches him approach. His fists are clenched and his shoulders are hunched, but he relaxes when he sees Jon. 

"Who are you?" he asks. Now that Jon is closer, he can see the teenager's reddened eyes - and the parallel slashes on either sides of his throat, fluttering with each of his breaths like a fish's gills.

(Jon's eyes quickly glance down, but the boy has legs just like him. He tries not to feel disappointed. What kind of merfolk doesn't have a tail? And wears shorts and a t-shirt instead of shells and lost treasures?)

"Ah -" Jon says experimentally. Cold on his tongue, cold in his lungs. Still no hint of suffocation. "My name is Jon. I'm from the surface. I suppose I am - lost."

The boy looks at him, fearful. "You can't stay here."

Jon prickles. "I know. How do I leave?"

"You can't." The boy's face scrunches up like he's about to start crying again. "No one can."

"Hey," Jon says awkwardly. He's never been good at dealing with other people's emotions. "Are you, huh. Are you okay?"

"No," the other says with a sigh. "I'm sorry. My - my name is Martin."

“Hello, Martin.” Jon shuffles on his feet - but he has to ask. “Are you some kind of selkie, or something?”

Martin blinks, and a lopsided smile appears on his face. “Or something, yes. I’m - oh, I’m sorry,” he says again. He runs a hand through his hair; it spreads around his head like a silver halo, and Jon catches himself wondering what color it would appear in the sunlight. “I should introduce myself - properly. I am Martin Blackwood. I am the fae prince of this underwater kingdom.”

He gestures with a webbed hand to the fields of seaweed around them, and Jon frowns. A kingdom? This looks like any old sea floor to his eyes.

As if he can hear his thoughts, Martin gracefully slides toward him.

“May I?” he asks, and it takes a beat for Jon to realise Martin is pointing at his hand.

“Hum - yes?”

Jon shivers again when Martin locks their hands together, but this time it doesn’t have much to do with the coolness of the water.

“You’re not looking,” Martin says patiently. “Watch.”

And all of a sudden - shadows, dancing on the corner of his vision. They slowly solidify, shaping themselves into actual buildings. Like the statue on the surface, they are made of smooth granite, beaten by the elements, half-covered in algae. It seems that it has seen better days, but the city sprawls, mysterious and majestic, before his disbelieving eyes.

Martin is looking at him expectantly; their hands are still interlocked, and the contact grounds Jon as he takes in the spectacle in front of him.

"This is amazing," he hears himself murmurs. "You live here?"

Martin looks a bit sad. "I do. But not for long. I -"

A noise behind them; Martin startles violently, and clutches Jon's hand tighter. He leans in closer, a hunted look in his eyes. 

"We have to leave - now," he whispers. "Do you trust me?"

Jon doesn't hesitate; he grips Martin's hand back, and nods.

"Lead the way." 


	3. the tide is turning/the undertow takes ahold of me

They half-run, half-glide toward the sunken city; the currents carry them forward, and if not for the sense of urgency Jon is getting from Martin, it would be the most free he's ever felt.

Fish swim around them, the wings of manta rays brushing against them as they race against each other. Jon vaguely recalls that those aren't supposed to live in the relatively cold waters of the British seaside; but then again, there's no recording of a large town there either. It's a strange world he found himself thrown into, one with impossible sea life and mysterious boys leading him through a deserted town. 

"Where are the people?" Jon asks.

Martin doesn't slow down. "My father doesn't like us talking to each other. He says silence is the only language that should be spoken in the depths."

"He sounds like a fun person," Jon grumbles, and Martin lets out a humourless laugh. 

"You have no idea. Here," he says, pulling Jon between two buildings and to a stop. "It should be safe now." 

"Safe from what?" Jon demands. He's never liked being kept in the dark, and the nebulousness of his situation is starting to get to him.

"The guards," Martin explains, sneaking a weary glance into the street they just left. "They'll be looking for me; my father knows I'll try to escape that marriage."

"Marriage?" Jon is getting tired of asking questions. "Martin, you're not making any sense."

Martin turns back to look at him, and his shoulders drop. "Sorry. I'm just - it's complicated. Or very simple, depending on how you see it. See - my father has promised my hand to the Lord of Many Eyes in order to join our two domains. But I know what happens to the people who leave for the bottom levels: they don't come back, and the rare ones that do are… changed. I don't want - I'm scared, Jon."

His voice breaks, and his eyes get glassy, as if he is about to cry. But no tear is shed; he takes in a shaky breath that makes his gills flutter, and sets his jaw. 

"This is why I'm going to run as far away as I can - to the surface." 

Jon eyes the other boy's more fishlike qualities. "I don't want to ruin your hopes, but can you even survive up there?"

Martin nods. "I have this cloak that used to belong to my mother. She was human, see. But when she fell in love with my father, she sought out an artifact that would allow her to join him, and she found that cloak. I'm convinced it could work the other way around."

"Okay," Jon says, because he is far past doubting fairytale logic at this point. "Where is it?" 

Martin looks discouraged. "In my bedroom." He points at a tower rising high above the other edifices. "On top of the highest tower of the castle." 

"Of course it is." Jon swears softly. "And I imagine it's guarded?" 

"It will be now. I don't think my father knows I found the cloak - it was a secret my mother told me about before she left - but his people will be looking for me. Going back won't be easy. Leaving again will be even harder."

"Right. On the other hand, he might not expect you to come back," Jon says pensively. "We should get going now, no sense in waiting much longer." 

A silence answers him. He looks at Martin to find the fae staring at him, his eyes wide as saucers. 

"... What?" 

"Nothing," Martin answers quickly. "I just wasn't expecting you to, uh, help. After all, you have your own problem to deal with."

Jon shrugs. "I feel like both our issues might have a common solution. We're going for the surface - together. Alright?" 

Martin still looks surprised, but he acquiesces. Jon nods, and barely thinks twice before taking his hand again. 

"Okay. Let's go."


	4. the faerie court (under moon)

They have to be careful; the nearer they get to the castle, the more guards they see patrolling. In groups of four, clad in tarnished armor, they comb through the streets with undivided attention, and more than once it's only Martin's quick reflexes that saves them from stumbling into the sentinels.

"The windows are all barred, so we can't swim directly to the top of the tower. The fastest, easiest way to sneak in will be through the gardens," Martin whispers as they weave through the streets of the submerged city. Despite the danger, Jon perks up. An underwater garden? He is curious to see it.

"What kind of flowers grow under water?" Jon wonders sotto voce. "Anemones?"

Martin grimaces. "I wish my father was content with anemones."

Jon doesn't have the time to ask for an explanation as they stop in front of a rusted gate; beyond it lies a vibrant garden of luminous greens and blues. Martin puts a hand around one of the bars of the gate, and turns to Jon.

"Here we are," he says. "Hum - don't touch the flowers, please. I don't know what could happen." 

Jon nods, intrigued. Martin pushes the gate, and it swings on its hinges with barely a sound despite its state. Jon steps into the garden as Martin closes the door behind them; the flowers are glowing, beckoning him, and it takes all of his will not to run to the nearest bush to check it out.

Without a word, Martin takes his hand and leads him down an overgrown alley. There isn't a sound as they walk the mossy cobblestone path, and yet Jon feels something calling to him, tugging at his very soul. His eyes keep going back to the flowers around them, and they're moving too fast to distinguish the details of them. They don't look like any of the plants he knows, whether they be terrestrial or aquatic. If he could only stop and examine one… 

"Martin? You're back!" 

Yanked from his thoughts, Jon jumps. Martin does as well, pulling Jon closer, pushing him behind him, but he relaxes when he sees the two people that have rounded the corner in front of them.

"Tim! Sasha!" he exclaims, forgetting all precautions. He drops Jon's hands to run toward the two peoples, and Jon clenches his fist a few times, feeling strangely abandoned. Instead of paying attention to this sentiment, he peers at the newcomers. 

As far as he can tell, they're both in their early twenties - a man and a woman, sharing the same ghostly complexion and pale eyes, though they're evidently not related. Something about them is off, like a mirror that would show you your reflection with a slight delay; uncomfortable, Jon looks away.

He's standing an arm's distance away from a flowering bush. Martin is still speaking to the ones he called Tim and Sasha, so Jon decides to investigate. What's the worst that could happen? They're just flowers. 

Strange, shapeless, luminous flowers. They sift and twist, never keeping the same number of petals from one moment to the next. Now that he's closer, Jon can hear the call more clearly; it's as if the flowers themselves are begging to be touched. Before he can stop himself, Jon reaches out. 

"Careful!"

A hand yanks his arm away, and he finds himself staring into the woman's cold, unsettling eyes. 

"You don 't want to touch those, believe me. Unless you wish to stay here forever?"

"Sasha," Martin says, distressed.

"What are they?" Jon asks. Now that he's seeing her up close, Sasha's eyes are the same colour as the flowers. 

Sasha sighs. "They're us." 

"What do you mean?" 

Tim has approached as well; he puts a hand on Jon's shoulder, and gently pulls him away from the bush.

"Each of those  _ flowers _ you see -" he gestures at the rows and rows of vegetation - "isn't a flower at all. They're - have you heard of Saint Elmo's fire? Some folks say it's the manifestation of a saint, others that they're the souls of drowned sailors. Take a wild guess at which those might be." 

"Souls?" Jon says disbelievingly. "Come on -" 

"Look at us," Sasha interrupts. "Look into our eyes. We're not that far gone yet, but we're on our way. One day, all that will be left of us is one of those flowers. "

Jon shivers. In the low light, Sasha and Tim's pupils glow the same bright blue as the flowers. Behind them, Martin is looking miserable.

"You were human?" Jon asks. Tim nods. "And those spirits… I think I can hear them calling to me…"

"Because they are," Sasha says. "You've made your first step into the world underwater. You can't feel it yet, but it's got its claws in you." The woman is looking past Jon as she speaks, as if she's talking to herself. "It's going to suck you dry from your life and your memories and your love and it's going to leave you a husk, a shell, a flower only fit to decorate the King's gardens. And then - nothing. You won't be anything anymore."

"Sasha, please -" Martin interrupts. He looks a bit queasy.

Tim puts a comforting hand on Sasha's shoulder, and she sighs. "I'm sorry. I was - away." 

Martin and Tim exchange a glance. Jon doesn't quite understand the conversation that takes place before his eyes, but he sees the concern. 

"We should get going," Martin says after a beat. "Before my father summons you and makes you tell him where I am," he chuckles nervously, suggesting it isn't that much of a joke. 

"You should," Tim acquiesces, throwing a look to Jon. "Hey. You still have a chance to leave, don't mess it up. And, uh, if you ever meet a Danny Stoker, tell him - tell him his brother loved him." 

Jon's throat clenches in sympathy for Tim's grief, and he nods. 

"Take care of Sasha, okay?" Martin says. 

Sasha seems to wake from her trance then, and offers him a pale smile. "Take care of yourself, Martin."

He nods. "I will." 

Then he takes Jon's hand, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and starts walking toward the stone walls of the fortress. 


	5. burn the boat, burn the sail (feel the thunder start to call)

The castle seems deserted; its corridors are empty, but decorated with more of the not-quite flowers in an obvious preparation for a ceremony. Martin pales at the sight. Automatically, Jon squeezes his hand: Martin breathes in deeply, instantly calming down.

"Everyone appears to be out. That's good, that's probably a good sign," he says. "They won't be looking for me here, or they'll already be at the temple - we might still make it."

He's trying to reassure himself, that much is clear. Still, Jon's trepidation mellows as well, but he lightly tugs on Martin's hand.

"We shouldn't linger around all the same. Where is your room?"

_ Where is your room,  _ he asks, and another reality flashes through his mind: a world in which Martin as a normal person, a classmate, whose house he'd be visiting for the first time, and whose bedroom he'd discover after dodging inquisitive parents - finding out about Martin's interests, plastered on the walls, tucked away on bookshelves, or from the man himself, if he was so inclined -

He breathes in a lungful of cold, salty water, and the illusion shatters. There's no warm room in his future, not Martin's and possibly not his own, if he doesn't find a way to leave this place. He remains certain his fate is linked to Martin's, though; so he follows him down the corridors, past heavy, moss-eaten doors, up the narrow stone staircase in which they have to stop holding hands, and into the room Martin calls his own.

It's - well, it looks like a prison cell. Like Martin has said, there are bars at the windows. The room is sparsely furnished; there's a desk, a cupboard, a bed that looks like it hasn't been slept in in days. Martin makes a beeline for the last piece, and pulls a rusted box from underneath it. While he fumbles with the lock, Jon takes a walk around the room, looking for traces of Martin's existence in the mostly empty space. There are books on the desk, reminding Jon of his daydream. When he looks through them - and despite their state of decay - he finds a lot of poetry, which in any other situation he would scoff at, but instead finds endearing.

He can picture Martin reading through them. Had he imagined how the sunlight would feel on his skin as he walked through a grove, when he only had forests of kelp as a point of reference? Had he been able to smell the scent of fresh flowers, when all he knew was his father's cruel garden of souls?

Jon frowns, and promises himself he will show all those things to him, if -  _ when _ \- they get out of this nightmare.

Behind him, Martin lets out a quiet, anguished cry. Jon turns around, alarmed.

"What's wrong?"

"The cloak," Martin gasps, showing him the empty case. "It's gone!"

Jon's blood turns to ice. "What? How? I thought it was a secret -"

"This is my home," a new voice interrupts, menace threaded in its serenity. "Did you really think you could keep anything a secret from me?"

Martin jumps, eyes wide like a rabbit's in the headlights. Jon looks toward the stairs; there's a man in the doorframe, blocking their escape even though his attitude is anything but threatening. His hair is silver and his eyes are bright, the same shade as Martin's. It doesn't take a genius to understand who he is, and Jon steps in front of Martin, glaring at the King.

"Where did you put it?" he demands imperiously.

The man smiles. "Oh, hello. We haven't been introduced, I believe. It's a shame, I love knowing about my new subjects. I'm Peter. And you are?"

"Not staying," Jon spits. Peter's friendly demeanor is unnerving, scratching at his nerves like sandpaper. "Where?"

Peter blinks, and his grin curves dangerously. "Not very polite, are we? Don't worry, I understand your situation must be quite unsettling. And I fear to imagine what Martin must have told you about me; the boy is at that age where he thinks his father is his worst enemy. But you'll listen to me, won't you? You're reasonable, are you not?"

Jon is practically vibrating with trepidation. He can feel Martin behind him, still frozen in fear; he  _ cannot _ let him down. One of them has to get them out.

"We're leaving," he hisses. "I've seen what happens to people here. I won't suffer that fate, and neither will Martin."

Peter's eyes narrow. "Oh, this is  _ wonderful _ . You  _ love  _ him. Aren't you just the desperate soul he needed? A boy with no friends, barely a family... Only someone so lonely could pick him." Jon's glare intensifies, and Peter shrugs. "Oh, don't give me that look, I am only being realistic. Isn't that right, Martin?"

Behind Jon, Martin breathes out a rueful sigh, but does not answer. Peter seems to take it as a yes, though, as he continues:

"Come now, stop being a brat. Your betrothed is expecting you, and you've already let him wait for too long already. Your -  _ friend  _ \- can come. Who knows, I could even talk Elias into letting him descend into the depths with you! Wouldn't that be marvelous?"

The threat is obvious, even to Jon. He's read books about the bottom of the ocean, about the pale fish and grotesque animals that live there; he imagines being sent there would be much, much worse than being trapped near the surface.

Martin gasps, and suddenly he's the one in the way, protecting Jon from his father. "No! I'll - I'll come. But you have to promise to let him leave -  _ please _ . This is the last thing I'll ever ask. Please."

Peter hums pensively. "Well, I suppose I could be convinced. Yes. Mhm, this is a pact, then. A soul for a soul; as it should be."

Jon catches Martin's arm, but Martin refuses to look at him. "You don't have to do that, that's - that's horrible, no one should be forced into a marriage they're not interested in! Plus, you're just a kid! This isn't fair!"

"This is the way it has to be," Martin says, sounding drained. "I - if there's a chance my sacrifice might allow you to go back to your life, I have to try. Better one of us makes it out, rather than none."

Then, delicately, he pulls himself from Jon's grasp.

It doesn't rain under the sea, but all of a sudden Jon feels as cold and drenched and miserable as if he'd never left the surface.


	6. you are the one who can't be saved

They are separated there as quiet women with faraway looks come and take Martin away. Peter notices Jon's clenched teeth, and smiles indulgently.

"Relax, they are simply going to dress him properly. Can't be showing up at his own wedding in everyday clothes, can he?"

"How can you do that to him? You're his father," Jon says, scowling. "This is - revolting."

The King gives a little laugh. "Well, I  _ am  _ his father. I only want what's best for him - and for my domain. He isn't happy here; perhaps the Darkness will be a better fit for him, hmm? Come now. You can be his witness."

Reluctantly, Jon follows Peter down the stairs, through guard-lined corridors, and out of the castle. From the front entrance, he can see the path that leads up an underwater hill devoid of any buildings - except for one: what looks like a sunken church. Its twin steeples rise higher than even Martin's tower, but still doesn’t come close to breaching the surface far above. As they come closer from it - Peter still chatting away, uncaring whether Jon answers or not - broken shards of moonlight reflect off the tinted glass set into thick walls of granite. Jon squints to take a better look at them, curious despite the block of icy despair that has replaced his heart. He can see monstrous marine animals, twisted bodies, broken ships; it's a temple to the drowned and the drowning and to those who wait for them under the waves. They pass the high gates of the church, and for the first time since he's woken up here, Jon can feel the water in his lungs burn, urging him to save himself.

But there's no way out anymore, is there? His only hope was Martin, and they are both getting their most dreaded ending tonight.

There's a silhouette standing before the altar. It is tall, and long, and austere, dressed all in black fabrics that float in the currents. Peter leaves Jon on the front row bench with a friendly pat on the shoulder which doesn't make him forget the two guards standing on either side of him, and walks up to the dark wraith. The person turns toward him, and Jon freezes when he catches a glimpse of their face. The skin is bone-white and paper thin, stretched over high cheekbones and a prominent brow; if not for the sickly, sticky feeling he's getting from him, Jon would almost call him  _ noble. _ But his eyes - his eyes are blank, wide and blind the way deep sea creatures' are, and at one of Peter's words his unseeing gaze points right at Jon - and then his  _ other  _ eyes open, slashing into his face, into the one hand that's visible, even into the  _ shadows at his feet. _

At the sight, Jon can't help but whimper. The monster doesn't smile, but his posture radiates satisfaction as he readjusts the cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

Jon screws his eyes shut, and forces himself to breathe even though his chest is still burning faintly, the promise of suffocation now at an arm's reach.

When he opens his eyes again, Peter has vanished - and the man, that  _ Lord of Many Eyes, _ has thankfully turned away. Jon lets out a relieved breath, and stills again when the doors of the temple swing open once more.

Organ music, eerily deformed by the water, starts to play; Jon doesn't want to turn around, but the curiosity is too strong, and he does. He sees Martin walk down the alley the way a condemned man would walk the plank, gripping his father's arm with white-knuckled panic; he's dressed in light satin and laces now, but even the veil floating around his face can't mask his terror.

It's at this point that Jon understands he can't give up, no matter how dreadful things might seem.

Martin gives Jon a quick glance when he passes him, a plea for help Jon receives loud and clear. He looks around - for an escape plan, for an ally, anything. His eyes fall on the Lord again, on the cape around his shoulders. It seems out of place on the creature's frame, like it doesn't belong to him. Hope sparks into Jon's heart, and he sees it mirrored in Martin's expression when he takes in his fiancé's outfit. What is Peter playing at? Is this some kind of taunt, giving Martin's object of salvation to his future jailer?

The Lord of Many Eyes offers his arm to Martin, who catches it as if it's the only thing keeping him up. Peter places himself in front of them and declares:

"Let the ceremony... _ begin. _ "

Several things happen at the same time:

Jon acts and lunges forward, aiming for the cloak. The two guards at his sides spear in his direction, and he's almost sure that if he hadn't decided to move, he would have been ran through. The doors of the temple fly open, and a crowd of pale-eyed people floods the building, armed with pitchforks, wooden pikes, anything that can even remotely be considered a weapon and used against the guards.

Sasha and Tim are at the front.

"Martin! Go!" Sasha shouts, burying her improvised spear in the shoulder of the nearest guard.

Tim parries a blow that was meant for his head, and yells out: "This is your moment, don't blow it!"

The mob fills every bit of the church, quickly overwhelming the guards. They aren't trained, however; it's only a matter of time before the King's forces recover from the surprise attack.

In the confusion, Jon snatches the cape from the Lord's shoulders. The Lord snarls, staring into Jon - and he feels seen, he feels observed, dissected,  _ known _ in a way that makes him want to crumble to the floor and hide - but he's dealt with bullies before, he's learned to keep his head high, and this is no different. He dodges a clawed hand headed for his face and jumps back, toward the space he's seen Martin standing in a couple of seconds before. He's still here, flanked by Tim and Sasha who give Jon a nod before tackling Peter. The King, who'd been trying to grab Martin, gives out an enraged scream. It's obvious he's stronger than Tim and Sasha combined and that he will overpower them soon. Jon doesn't waste any time; as soon as he reaches Martin, he wraps the cloak around him, and yells to be heard above the ruckus:

"Get us out of there!"

Martin looks distressed. "But Sasha, and Tim, and everyone…"

"They're doing this for you! Don't let their sacrifice be for nothing!"

They stare at each other, the chaos around them forgotten for a moment. Then Martin sighs.

"Right. Right, of course. Let's get out."

Jon follows Martin as they dash toward a narrow staircase that Jon can only assume leads up one of the steeples; Martin looks back one last time, eyes filled with sorrow and regret, at the chaos behind them; but then he's ascending the stairs, Jon right on his heels.

They reach the top of the tower after what feels like an eternity, no noise of pursuit following them. There's a large window cut at the top of the tower, and Martin stops in front of it. He turns towards Jon.

"Do you still trust me?" he asks urgently.

Jon nods. "Of course. With my life."

Martin smiles without humour. "Good. That's exactly what I need."

Then he swoops Jon into a hug, whispers into his ear: "Don't let go", and throws them both out of the window.


	7. out in the darkness, I saw an angel

Jon coughs and gasps as he wakes up in the sand. He's cold, soaked to the bone, and it takes him a moment to remember what happened. Right. The fall in the water, Martin, the wedding, the escape -

_Martin!_

He looks to the side, and here's the former prince of the sea, wrapped up in his cloak. There's the slightest breeze, and the garment turns to dust - and with it disappears Martin's gils, as he takes his first breath with human lungs.

Martin shivers, and opens his eyes. He gasps when he sees Jon above him, and sits up.

"Jon! Are you okay? Where are we? Oh -" he gasps again, as his gaze runs wildly around, taking in his surroundings in a way that's not without reminding Jon of his own discovery of the underwater world. "Are we... Are we out?"

He sounds so incredulous that Jon laughs, sitting beside him.

"Yes. I'm sorry, that's it. Very underwhelming, I know-"

"No," Martin interrupts, staring at the line where the sky meets the sea. "No, it's beautiful."

Jon follows his gaze; he has to admit he's right. The sky is pink in a way that announces more rain later, but for now the morning is crisp and clean like a new beginning.

"Yes," Jon murmurs. "Yes, it is."

They sit in silence for a bit, watching the light of dawn spread across the horizon. The beach around them is deserted; it won't be for much longer, as people come out for a run or to walk their dogs, but for now it's theirs to enjoy.

At last, Jon gets up. He feels every bruise in his body, and his mouth tastes like salt - will for a long time, he's willing to bet. He holds out a hand to Martin.

"Let's go."

Martin looks up at him with surprise. "Jon?"

"You don't look very inconspicuous right now, you know? We should get you new clothes." Then, when Martin keeps staring at him: "What?"

"Oh," Martin says. "I just didn't think - you still want to help me?"

"Of course," Jon says. "After all, I-" He stops himself right before admitting _"I love you",_ and coughs. "Do you know how I ended up under the sea in the first place?” Martin shakes his head silently. "Well, there's this statue on the beach - here, you can see it over there," he points out the other side of the beach and the dark shape that stands there. "And there's this legend that says that if you light a flame inside its lantern, you can make a wish. I wished - I wished not to be alone anymore. And I think you're it."

"It?"

"Yes. My…friend, I suppose?" Jon says, feeling awkward. "That is, only if you want to…"

Martin finally takes the hand that's offered to him, and hauls himself up to his feet. He doesn't let go once he's standing.

"I would like that," he says timidly. "This is a weird new world. I could use a friend."

"Great," Jon smiles. "Let's get you home, then."


End file.
